


I Made Dinner

by closet_monster



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dubious Morality, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Morally Ambiguous Character, Oblivious Nesta Archeron, Recovery, References to Depression, Sexual Content, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: They weren't people as much as they were animals. Instinctive. Primal. Sick.And as Cassian eyes the food that Nesta had carefully cooked for him, he can't help but wonder if she knew what it meant.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 20
Kudos: 178





	1. The Food

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! When I had this idea, it was supposed to be a fluff crack fic. Then I ended up doing a really dark and depressing thing. Than I edited it so it became lighter - and ended up with this. Still debating wheter or not I'll give it closure, but so far, it's just an angsty oneshot.  
> I want Nesta to grow so bad. I want her to deconstruct and then to build herself again. Which is why I handled her like this in here. She's a very complex character and I know that she's way too OOC on this fic. Yes. But I'm just exercising anyway.  
> Stay safe every soul! Stay home and take care!

They had been doing that for some time now. Alone in the illyrian camps, the first months had been painful. They fought all the time, every word trade in between them sparking into a hateful attack that slashed from both sides. Hurtful and restless, powered by rage, desolation, hopelessness, exhaustion and heartbreaking fear - from the two of them. Everyday, they would both go to bed with a headache and a deep frown that somehow stuck through their slumber.

Until, of course, Nesta made friends.

Cassian remembers something that Amren had told them centuries ago - about how speech is intertwined to the idea of existence. That what makes you some _one_ rather than some _thing_ , is the ability to speak. That the harsh lack of communication is a perfectly effective way to sicken a person, drive them mad. The very exercise of speech being fundamental to the concept of being sane (and that Nesta didn't really do any of it).

He knew she sneaked out.

And she was good at it, but not good enough to deceive him. Most of the time, Cassian found himself holding back a snort as he felt her soft padding rumbling through the skeleton of the house, leaving. He always followed her: never interfering, but watching over religiously. Protective. And Cassian wouldn't dare form the word on his mind, but possessive, too.

Despite his worse expectations, she never looked for a tavern. A bar, an inn, a male to fuck - because he would stop her, then. Illyrians were despicable on their view of females and once one had gotten their sight on her, it would be a world of trouble to make them internalize that they didn't own her. Cassian would much rather claim her to himself than let a stranger do it, regardless of whether she wanted it or not. He knew that if they sensed the claim, half a thought would be enough to keep them at bay. No one would dare look her in the eyes, if doing so meant stepping into his property -

And however disgusted and sickened Cassian was by that logic, he would use it to his favor if it meant keeping her safe from them.

He wondered if this was the wicked logic every other male followed. If they too thought that they were being rationally protective; if he was unconsciously succumbing to the illyrian instincts he so often despised.

So he followed. And every night, she simply escaped them. Out of the camp and into the wilderness surrounding them: to the magical woods that survived their harsh temperatures with life and a hint color. To the mountains, sometimes daring to ascend as much as 60 feet from the ground. To their streams and rivers and waterfalls. Graveyards.

Cassian didn't understand most of it, but he could feel it with every ounce of his being as she _became_. Fingers brushing against the bole of a gigantic tree, older than their existence. The wind roaring in between the mountains when she grounded her feet on their heart, the earth humming in agreement when she planted her palms on the dirt. Exchanging words of a language that didn't exist.

The one time she laid bare in a grey rock, in the center of a wide river, staring into the moon as if they were talking to each other. He could swear that the current moved along with her chest, her heartbeat getting lost with the running water.

Cassian knew she was aware of him, then, because something on his chest told him that Nesta was aware of every inch of life existing in that forest. And something - perhaps through the hidden and oppressed bond that linked them together - seeped into his soul, as if he, too, was part of it. The wind, calm and severe; much like the blood running through his veins.

It was the only time he ever interfered - taking her sleeping, naked body from the rock and flying her home. They never said a single word about it.

Nesta eventually agreed to train.

Months - it had taken months. But she came to him and he almost roared with the request. Cassian didn't have much time: the camps drained his unyielding attention. Sometimes he couldn't make it back to the house for days, in nonstop discussion with the clans far from their camp. But he would make time for her.

Nesta's furious fire was dying down. It had been, for a while, and if she was ready to progress, he'd do everything to help.

At that point, he didn't care anymore; that all she did was quietly look into the walls, eventually escaping the camps to do whatever it was that she did - he wouldn't say or think it, but it roamed through his body. _Witch, witch, witch,_ bending ancient magic beyond her own reserve. And however it was, Cassian was pleased enough. Quiet and depressed _but_ curious was much better than depressed and enraged. He didn't miss the fights, he didn't miss the screaming, her insults, and he sure as hell didn't miss insulting her back. That split second in which her mask always faltered and he could see her broken heart through the rapid crack. When she turned away, pretending to be _"sick of this",_ just to hide the tears forming on her waterline.

He could scent the salt lingering in the air for hours - and sometimes, he could make out the small, muffled sobs through the wooden walls.

Cassian didn't miss it.

Nesta was fierce and stubborn, and she learned quick. She fought and she pushed and she failed and she tried harder.

Cassian knew that it was less out of passion and more about a desperate search. Lunging forward to greet something, to fill an empty, painful space inside of her with a strong, carefully crafted construction of her own. He knew, because he had met that place, many centuries before her.

When the center of your life becomes something you couldn't care less about - and yet, something that filled the void anyway. Something that you danced into so ferociously, you eventually cared.

Things got better, eventually.

But he never again met with _that_ Nesta. That one from the first time they locked eyes, who shot back at him like she couldn't care less - the one that bewitched him in some senseless way. That Nesta was long dead, much like the newly transformed Nesta and the addicted, post war Nesta.

The woman who stared at him across the rink with a sincere smile that reached her eyes was another Nesta entirely. A Nesta that so far, only he knew - with those so, so rare smiles.

He loved her too. In such a true, raw, unspeakable way, it made his heart ache.

They got around each other in strange terms, but with shockingly good harmony. Calm, quietly. They coexisted together, not needing many words to understand or function. 

Nesta knew how to drag him back home. She could drag him back from work, from training, from a fight, like she could tell when enough was enough. She could drag him back from his mind, when he was way too deep inside. Cassian eased back into letting her close - accepting the help, embracing her care. Letting her tentative hands work on a bandage, patching up yet another wound. Letting her carefully wash his wings because his arms were nearly limp sometimes.

She got hurt, too, sometimes; during training or adventuring through Illyria. She wasn't nearly as reckless as him, though, which meant her wounds and bruises were much lighter and simple to care for. And Cassian was always there, whether she told him to go away or not. He always stayed, like she always stayed when he was being insufferable, telling her to go away.

Now, more than ever, he stayed - because during a very long time, he didn't. Not him nor anyone else, and it had been a mistake to leave her alone.

Cassian had tended to her fae cycle, too. Twice now, that is. The first time was soon after they arrived in Windhaven, when they couldn't stand the sight of each other. Nesta had actually put up a fight against him, but her body eventually gave out and he stepped in with his unwanted care. The second time around, she whined, cried, trashed, but never asked him go away - and as much as leaned into his touch sometimes.

Cassian wondered if the next cycle would turn her into a domesticated pet and so on.

They were good for each other. Oddly so.

Whereas Nesta was a wounded animal, Cassian was a shackled beast. Both instincts urging to bite and fight back any intruders, successfully keeping everyone away. But Cassian wasn't new to wounded animals and Nesta couldn't be bothered by any monsters - least of all, one she knew. Whereas everyone held back, they pushed inside each other with a challenge. With lack of apprehension, no fear of backlash.

If they felt the need to, they pushed and they stayed. They forced each other to listen and take, to open and allow, to feel and confront and heal, willingly or not.

No one else seemed to understand. At home, at least. In Velaris, when he came by for a monthly visit, to check on the city and on everyone else. No one understood his vicious stares when someone lightly offended _her_ or voiced how much he might have been suffering. They didn't understand his offense, the low snarls, the warning looks. No one seemed to believe his positive reports; to understand the seriousness in which Nesta had taken her training and how good she was with it.

He didn't like the disbelief and the dismissal.

Regarding the one person who, through unconventional means, had made life substantially less desolating for him.

They were good. Easy. Every now and then, utterly complicated and dark, but mostly fine and harmonic. Sometimes, happy, even. Cassian discovered the heartwarming sound of her laugh, seeing her smile times enough to know what her teeth looked like.

The easiest way to drag them out of her was through gossip. Nesta and Cassian found that they were both incredibly good at it. They would spend hours curled up together on the couch, talking about the camp and it's illyrians; criticizing some of them to the point of making uncontrollable laughter erupt from each other.

Easy.

One thing, though, wasn't.

Food.

Cassian always cooked (and always seemed so weird about it). She didn't understand. Sometimes, he'd let her help; they'd cook together. Neither of them were a necessarily good cook, but they made do. And Cassian was so, so strange about it. He always jumped at Nesta's smallest mentions of hunger, never letting her cook by herself.

She didn't get it - and Cassian knew it. Nesta didn't know a lot about their traditions and overall behavior. And considering how little she had talked to everyone else back then, Cassian doubted she knew the implications of offering food to a male whom you've got a suspicious connection with.

Cassian was an idiotic, selfish son of a bitch, but he would never trick Nesta into accepting a bond she didn't even attempt to recognize on the first place.

Sometimes, he would be out for days. She'd cook for herself then. Alone in the small house that would, somehow, feel way too big. She didn't always eat on these days - only if there was some training involved and her body cried for it. But mostly, when Nesta was alone, she didn't find herself in the mood for eating.

But Cassian was coming home tonight. She knew, because he had sworn on his balls that he would be back in three days, after she called him a wood faced liar for never getting the timing right. He promised that she would have free reign to rip out his balls with a screwdriver - and considering how seriously Nesta took on that offer, Cassian wouldn't dare be late for once.

So she made dinner. Entirely alone and planning on his arrival, she took a little time to make something for him. Nesta knew how bad he took those trips to the clans far from Windhaven. He could use coming home to rest just once - especially if he fulfilled his promise to her.

And Nesta wanted him to come back so bad. The house felt dead without him - she didn't find any amusement in doing anything without Cassian. She longed for him during those days: any flicker of life, any sparking flame to make her heart beat out of rhythm.

Nesta felt herself smiling when his heavy footsteps came around. She knew what he sounded like - knew how he felt like against the house. His presence was unmistakable, too.

He came inside looking like shit - not surprisingly. She had had a hard day too; Devlon was never too kind on her when he was the one handling the girls on training. But she had made it home in one piece, bathed and then gotten to the food. Waiting. She waited for hours. He nearly arrived after the midnight mark, coming dangerously close to seeing off his balls - but he still came in time, in the end.

"There you are." She held back a smile, somehow unable to keep the light from her eyes. 

He smirked back at her, bowing in theatrical mockery.

"They stay in." Cassian smiled, definitely talking about his balls.

The commander missed her just as much as she did him. There was something about her; her presence, her breathing, her scent, that made the world around him go quiet. Everything wrong, everything bad, everything draining, usually left his mind when he came around Nesta.

Cassian could feel himself easing at the sight of her. Curled up on the couch with an old book he knew she had finished about 5 times, content showing on her face. Content to see him back - and Cassian didn't dare think about it any further. So he looked at her body instead, surveying her clothes.

Nesta had fallen into the habit of wearing Illyrian leathers - or one of his shirts combined with the few pants she had. The dresses were mostly put aside, especially if they were long or heavy; Nesta found that the restraint of it all just made her sick, on the camp especially. And with most of her clothes being ruled out, she retorted to either thieving some of his shirts or waltzing around the house in light, mostly sheer nightgowns cut around her knees that sometimes could be too revealing for an outsider.

But she only ever dressed like that inside the house. With him.

Cassian never allowed himself to think into it either.

"This is the shortest thing I've seen you wear so far." He summoned a smirk, closing the door behind him and walking in. "Congratulations on the feat."

He had seen that one before; a yellow silky thing that used to go all the way to her ankles - which then was cut shorter to her calf, then to her knees. Now, it was a little shorter than that.

"Hm. It's going to become a shirt soon." She murmured, closing the book on her legs and moving it to the side. "The fabric gets frayed after a while. I either keep cutting or throw it away already."

Cassian hoped she cutted this into a shirt already. He prayed she didn't just take more inches, making it way too short to be around him without making things weird.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes. Well, not that I noticed anything out of place." She shrugged, shifting a little over her thighs. "I, hm… I made dinner."

Three harmless words that froze his body as if they were made out of ice.

He followed her gaze to the food carefully placed on their small, rectangular kitchen table. There were two plates set, the pans organized in a line; and the smell was oddly enticing.

Cassian took about 5 seconds to debate whether or not Nesta knew what that was; short answer being no. There was no way she knew about the food-offering thing.

Although… It was much like the act of baring your throat to someone when you were attracted to them - an unconscious, animalistic part of your brain that shows just how much you trust and is willing to give. An unconscious acceptance; like the dinner she cooked. That even if Nesta didn't really know what it meant (or the profundity of that act), that's exactly what she meant anyway.

But he couldn't. He couldn't do that to her. And that was a whole conversation he'd have to muster for another day; Cassian was too fucking tired to go through any of that anxiety at the moment.

"I… Actually, I ate there." _Lie._ By her lost expression, he assumed that she had bought it. "It was a long day, so... I didn't wait."

_"Oh."_

"I'm just… I'm going to get myself clean and I'm going to black out. Call me if you need anything."

She wouldn't: she never called for help (especially when she needed it). They both knew it, but Cassian never stopped saying it; although in moments like this, Nesta stared back at him like the offer was a joke. She was wounded - unknowingly, too. He had declined her open hearted acceptance: that was as much of an injury as it could be.

Cassian didn't spare the kitchen a second glance before going up - or to Nesta either.

He didn't sleep much at night. Or at all, really. The house went back to that familiar scent that was too much like salt - and his heart felt too tight inside his chest. 

  
  


Nesta had taken that like a fatal wound. The air was too thick as it passed through her nostrils, heavy and not enough to fill her lungs. For some reason, it hurt - and she just couldn't understand why. Why did _that_ broke her down so easily, when worse things hadn't had half of that effect?

She had taken her time. Had bought, reaped, washed, prepared and cooked. She put so much effort through every second of it to make the food perfect - for him. It was all for him. She never cooked for herself like that, never went through too much trouble.

And then he shrugged her off and went to bed.

What really made her cry, when she was well under her blankets, tucked in bed, was the realisation that she had done that to him countless times before. And he never once stepped back, only pushed in, despite her unwillingness to yield.

Curling herself around her pillow, Nesta scolded herself for feeling hurt at all. She didn't have a right to, not after everything. She _deserved_ this. And she would take it with her mouth shut.

The self unforgiving shadow didn't stop her from crying, though. Quietly, through heavy breaths that didn't do much to stop the pain on her chest.


	2. The Rink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The illyrian sparring rinks are ruthless - Nesta learns that the worst way. Cassian is there to take care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok attention. This was going to be another oneshot entirely but then I felt like this could run in the same timeline from I Made Dinner - and some people asked for a continuation, so it felt right. So here's a second chapter (hell I might even go for a third).  
> Also. Yes. That's Zendaya as a character. I needed a female character to fill the plot and upon further consideration I realized how badly I needed an illyrian Zendaya in my life. Also I'm lazy. So what?  
> Either way. Hm.... I guess I forgot to say that english is not my first language, so my vocabulary is a little poor. It makes writing these things a little harder, but I hope I can do enough to keep up with it.

Eight days.

It was the longest he had ever been away from her since they moved to the mountains - and Cassian felt like he was choking on perfectly breathable air with every passing second. 

The midday sun makes the thinner membranes of his wings turn red as he marches into the house. The old wood creaks with his weight as he crosses the front porch and Cassian simply _knows_ that something is off even before his hand curls around the doorknob.

It's too much. _Too much._

So in order to access the situation, Cassian turns off the part of his brain which is emotional and activates the one which is impassive and tactical - because he doesn't know how to make sense of it when he comes home to find Nesta thrown over his bed, holding a big block of ice to her ribs.

That was the first information his brain had picked up on.

The second was that she had been wearing nothing but an old shirt of his, which had been pushed all the way up to her breasts. And before Cassian could even think too hard about it, he then noticed how her body was a mess of bruises, skin taken by black, green, purple and blue spots. The one on her upper body was an immoral black contusion that took the entirety of her ribs to the center of her abdomen. Her inner thighs were also awfully purple and there was definitely a bloody bite craved there. Swelling.

He knows better than to panic. Cassian is the Lord Commander, after all - technically, he is supposed to be able to maintain his ground under pressure and to work through crisis with ease.

But his faith on the illyrians is low enough, that the first thing that crosses his mind… It makes his blood turn into venom. He can almost see yellow bolts of electricity snapping around his body, his quiet rage threatening to crack free and devastate everything that stands in it's way -

Despite himself, Cassian is also taken by his instincts to protect and take care. As badly as he wants to hunt down whoever is involved with this, he also has the sudden inability to leave that room.

Though her heartbeat is steady and her breathing sounds even, the contusion under the block of ice seems like a problem - and where on earth did she even get that thing? From the looks of it, the weight of the block was probably making it worse.

"Cassian?"

Nesta's voice was eerie, breathy, like a whisper. She also didn't sound as miserable as she looked like.

"Hi, sweetheart." He whispered back, finally getting to the bed - which was soaking wet. That block of ice had been melting down for a while. "What happened to you?"

Half of her forehead was simply black. Not swollen, somehow, but black; her right eyebrow was split open. And besides a few scratches and being awfully pale, the rest of her face seemed to be fine. The expression she bore was one of complete exhaustion; in fact, Nesta hardly even seemed to be awake. And that was all - no other indication. No hint of anger, fear, resentment or bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

"Two rounds." She rasped, opening her eyes just enough to make sense of him in front of her.

Not that she could see much. The male before her was nothing but a blurry silhouette - the hit she had taken to her head had messed up with all of her senses. And keeping her eyes open hurt.

"Two rounds." Cassian said back, barely processing the information she had given him.

Even though they had been fighting for it, the girls were hardly allowed into the pits, much less into the rinks. 

It's a practical process for the beginners: you're just summoned to get in the rink. If you lose the fight, leave shamefully; if you win, pick your next opponent. A system simple enough that had every novice going through at least two rounds - though the most popular of them always ended up being invited for thirds or fourths. And as prideful as every illyrian was, none of them ever refused.

And even though some of their female warriors were just as powerful, the males didn't see them as worthy opponents. They were never summoned for the rinks. Cassian hadn't heard about any of the girls going into rounds since they started with the training, least of all Nesta.

Nesta who, apparently, had stood two rounds on the rink.

"Who the fuck summoned you?" He murmured, keeping the anger away from his words.

Nesta was a grown female. A strong, powerful, competent female who could fight for herself. But she was still half the size of most of their warriors and whoever had chosen her, had made a fucking number.

Cassian was proud of her, yes, but he was also so fucking livid.

"Don't know." Nesta murmured, closing her eyes again.

Technically, she _did_ know. She had seen his face about a hundred times around the camp and she was almost sure that his father was one of Devlon's puppies. The male didn't like her too much and her inability to be submissive to them never helped. The wrong choice of words had him picking her up for the rink. He hadn't called for _"Nesta"_ or _"the commander's female",_ like most of them did. He simply screamed _"I want the bitch",_ and because the males roared in agreement with the offense, she could not stay back and refuse to fight.

She _did_ know him. But she didn't have the strength to debate it right now. Or to give Cassian any reasons to leave.

He took the block off her and tossed it to the ground. The monstrosity broke to smaller pieces, but he didn't bother to take them just yet. Cassian moved his hands to feel her ice cold ribs instead, checking if anything was broken or cracked.

They did have healers in Illyria, but they were nothing like the fancy healers in Velaris, who could close wounds and make scars disappear with a little concentration. Their type of healing was a lot more coarse and primitive, where magic only did so much; the rest they managed with blades, stitches and herbs. Lots of letting the warriors sleep off their wounds or punching things back into place.

Her bones were all in one piece, thankfully. The little healing that Cassian could manage with his siphons would do to soothe the bruises, but as for the cut on the end of her eyebrow, that'd probably leave a scar.

"Who did you summon?" Cassian pushed, picking a piece of ice from the floor and taking it to her forehead.

Nesta's only reaction was to groan, since her body didn't have enough energy to flinch or bite him away.

And as for the answer… Well.

The girls were few, but they stuck together. In a place where the validation of their very existence was questioned with every breath, they looked out for each other. And Nesta would, now and then, catch herself thinking that even though they were strangers in essence, she would go through hell and then some for those girls.

She had made friends. 

Somehow.

The illyrian girls - or at least the ones bad enough to spit on tradition and stand up for themselves - were much like her. Fierce, stubborn, proud and powerful; they took nothing from no one. And quite easily, Nesta put herself aside in order to blend in with them. The process was so organic, no one could have seen it coming; Cassian included. But they were kind of the same and she didn't have a reason to hide from them.

The girls - the _bad_ girls - liked her too. They liked how she never backed off from a challenge, never lowered her head or her eyes for anyone. Nesta owned herself, while most of them were still clawing through the unconscious reflex to bow to every male who looked their way.

And Nesta's best friend was a scrawny girl who couldn't help but run her mouth. While incredibly tall and sharply beautiful, she didn't have enough muscle to hug her bones. The girl never missed training and was good enough with a knife, but her technique was not yet enough to keep up with the rest of the illyrian warriors - not that Nesta could, either, but she was significantly stronger.

And for someone so fragile, one would think that the illyrian would know when to keep her mouth shut, but she was unstoppable: the girl would not, by any means, refrain from speaking her mind. She had opinions - many, many opinions, and every soul around her would hear them, given a chance.

Like Nesta, she offended the wrong guys. Unlike Nesta, she had gotten her ass beat.

So after Nesta managed to choke her first opponent in between her thighs, she didn't think twice before summoning the motherfucker who had messed with her friend. And for one, she didn't really think that she'd make it that far - or win, at all. Nesta's only goal was to land at least one hit to avenge her friend.

But she did win. She got a good kick to his balls, then one to his face. The male fell on his back, still conscious, and then Nesta punched his handsome face until Devlon ended the fight.

A lucky shot.

One lucky fucking shot, because he had gotten her _good_ before that.

"A Ghaece brother. The one that walks like a peacock; you know the one."

Morko Ghaece was one of their warlords. He and his wife had had way too many sons to count; the couple prided themselves to have breeded an army of their own, none of them being females.

If Cassian was to guess who the "peacock" was, it would have been Ghaece n°17 or Ghaece n°22. In the end, they all looked and sounded the same: a slightly smaller, taller, bigger, leaner, bulkier or hairier version of their father. And while the Ghaece peacocks he could recall weren't the bigger on the family, they weren't the smaller either.

"Why the fuck would you do that?" His shoulders tensed and he assessed her bruises again.

Her left hand was a mess, knuckles split raw and bleeding into the bed.

"He's awful. And he messed with my friend." She murmured, letting her head sink deeper into the blood scented pillows. "I'm sorry about this. This mess."

A mess indeed. There were way too many blankets tossed around the bedroom. His wardrobe doors were open wide, some of his clothes - some of his underwear included - thrown over the bed. And while Cassian understood her lack of strength to dress up, he didn't understand why she had wrangled herself inside one of his shirts - which was definitely dirty - and chosen his bed rather than hers.

"What's this about?" He curiously looked back to her motionless face.

It might have been an impression, but Cassian was convinced that the black bruise on her forehead was slowly fading to purple with his massage. He quickly eyed the rest of her body to target the next spot; her busted hand was a good idea. Though her ribs were fucked, she sure as hell didn't need to apply any more ice there. And all things considered, she would be either too numb or too overwhelmed to decide upon anything herself.

"I heard some steps around the house, after I came back. The sound of wings, too. I think his brothers were trying to do something about me." Nesta murmured, holding back a comment about how scared she had been then. "I thought… I thought that if they scented you inside the house, they wouldn't get in."

Of course.

While illyrians bore not an ounce of respect inside their hearts, they still were territorial little fucks.

That was Cassian's house. And through their rudimentary visions, Nesta, even single and unmated, was _his_ female. Because she lived on his house, under his care. He bared his teeth to anyone who looked at her the wrong way, flared his wings, flexed his fingers - they knew that messing with Nesta meant backlash from their commander.

Cassian's scent should be a reminder good enough, had his presence gone lacking. And with his pillows, his blankets, his clothes - clean and dirty, thrown around her, Nesta was covered.

Cassian allowed himself a moment to marvel at her geniality.

He knew how brilliant Nesta could be, but she never failed to amaze him. The female was smart and creative, inventive, always making up ways go get around her problems with clever solutions. Cassian often wondered about what kind of inventor she would have turned out to be had she spent some time with the scientists and tinkerers of the Dawn Court - what kind of fae she would have turned out to be had she spent some time with the conjurers of the Day Court.

People who could nurture her organic abilities rather than keeping them down.

"That was smart of you." He breathed out, focusing on icing her hand to block the thoughts on his mind. "If they came here, I take it you won both rounds."

Her small smile was answer enough.

And Cassian couldn't be more proud of her. Sure, Nesta was pretty much in pieces, thrown over a wet bed and using his dirty clothes as a defense mechanism; but she still had won both of her rounds against two grown males. It was a big feat and hopefully, those matches would spark some inspiration for the girls (and a little more respect from the males).

And all in all, he now had two males to worry about. Considering the Ghaece kid, maybe thirty; but in essence, two guys.

The one asshole who chose her for the rink; he'd have to figure out what had been his reason and if they had gotten worse after she won. And then, the one who chose Nesta's friend, a young female who couldn't weight more than 130 pounds, wings included. Bad enough to accept Nesta's summoning as well - and Cassian had an impression that the contusion on her ribs was his doing.

On their poorly developed minds, losing a fight to a female would be seen as public humiliation. They'd be looked down by the other warriors, their families, friends, colleagues and partners, and all of that shame would probably make them thirsty for revenge. The chances they held a grudge against her were beyond high and Cassian would have to keep his eyes on them.

"Nesta…" He shook his head with a whisper, abandoning the small block somewhere on the sheets.

All that ice could only do so much for her and he needed to go get salve and bandages. And if Nesta was barely awake when he got up to collect those things, she sure as hell was asleep by the time he came back - though "blacked out" would be an even more accurate description.

He tended to her hands, wrapping them carefully; the eyebrow cut, that had closed with a pink line for a scar; the fucking bite mark, that made his possessive irrationality go wild.

When the harsh bruises were dealt with, Cassian carefully undressed her, tossing the shirt in a bin with every other dirty thing she had thrown around the bedroom. He folded the clothes and the blankets, putting everything back in place - but he left a clean shirt for her. There was nothing remotely sexual about it when he took a washcloth to Nesta's body, washing away the blood and the sweat until she was perfectly clean - and then dressed her again with the shirt he had put aside. It was way too big for her, but it was warm and incredibly soft; the only two qualities that he wanted in any piece of clothing for her at the moment.

Cassian moved her back to her own bedroom, away from the wet bed and it's shards of ice. Nesta's heavy eyelids didn't even flutter during the process, neither did she when he curled up around her body, nestling her with their blankets and his wings.

And when he took one more look to her bruised face, perfectly passive in deep slumber; perfectly tended to and cared for; perfectly safe under his eyes, Cassian finally allowed himself to snap out of his haze.

He wanted to crush the world to ash in between his hands.

Because that wild thing, that fire forged deity, that storm embodied, who was _his mate_ , was made for things far greater than to roll in mud crusted rinks with blood thirsty, barbaric savages. And Nesta was far too proud to ever own up to any form of fragility, but she didn't like the violence one bit; never had. Whatever was stored inside of her had gone insanely broken after the war against Hybern. It had damaged her sense of self preservation beyond repair.

Cassian had grown familiar with the way she fought; lunging forward, jumping head first, no hesitation. He knew that disastrous pattern well enough.

_Punching a blade is for when you don't care about getting hurt._

Rhysand's mother had said that about a thousand times to all three of them. To Rhys, who was too reckless; to Azriel, who was too self-flagellating; to him, who was too destructive.

And Nesta seemed to be like all three of them. She was self-flagellating, which made her destructive, which turned her reckless. And she would punch blades with or without a momentum, because she really couldn't care less about hurting herself.

It made Cassian feel like filth.

What day was it? How many had passed? How long since he made her a promise and how long since he had broken it for the first time? For how long had he been, relentlessly, breaking it? Over and over again, like failing her once wasn't enough.

The commander had once thought to himself that he'd love to have her unbound, but it was not like this. He meant unbound as free; unchained, unconditional, liberated from the invisible weight pulling her down and the mental walls that she had carefully built around herself. He had meant unbound as free, never unbound as reckless, self-flagellating and destructive.

He knew that pain and it tore through him that she had to go through any of it.

 _His mate._ His fucking mate.

Cassian had become great at suppressing those words from his own mind, but he didn't hold them back as he took her in.

Her scent, her heartbeat, her breathing - the way her body reacted to being alive. The sounds, the movements, the colors, the textures. The whole person who was guarded inside that vessel; a person he loved with the vehemence of the sun, as it rose every morning, sunk with every night and even then, reflected on the moon that stayed up in the middle of the dark.

That was her. That was Nesta.

Finding clever solutions to solve the problems crashing around her like the harsh waves of a mad ocean. Finding a way to bring light to his dark, shredding herself for him even when they were apart.

She reflected on the moon - and he could see her.

His mate.

He could _see_ her.

Cassian watched over Nesta for hours until he fell asleep himself - and even asleep, he never dared to stop holding her. He wouldn't, couldn't. And didn't want to, at all. Cassian didn't care that his stupids instincts were showing, didn't deny himself the thought that she was his mate and that his arms were the only place he wanted for her, as things were at the moment.

He was a territorial little fuck himself.

Nesta was hot when she woke up. It was either a slight fever or Cassian's warmth; whatever it was, she didn't mind it at all. Finally, she was awake; or the most conscious that she had been in hours, at least. And with a first deep breath, all of her bruises and contusions made themselves known as if the air had set them on fire.

Cassian caressed her collarbone lightly, humming to let her know that he was awake - of course he was. With a few more beats, he also retreated his wing from were it was hovering over them, letting it rest behind his back.

Even though the room was dark, taken by the beginning of a cold night, the moonlight seeping in through the windows was enough to make her cringe.

Something sharp, something grey, something bitter, pushed from the back of Nesta's mind. A faint warning to push away, to protect herself and to protect him - from herself. But if she ever made a motion to move, Cassian didn't let her.

He held tighter and Nesta quieted the voice entirely, pressing her head to his arm.

She hummed then, not yet finding any words within herself, his answer turning back in the same way. A wordless conversation that was clear enough for the two of them.

_I'm here._

_Me too._

_Let's stay._

And they did, but neither of them fell asleep again. They remained awake, holding each other, feeling their bodies, relying on the calm, reassuring company. Not many things in the world felt as right as they did.

That wild thing, that fire forged deity, that storm embodied; who was also a soothing spirit, a warm ember and a calm zephyr travelling lightly in time. Towards, through and against him, the only sight cunning enough to pick her apart from the stark barrier of nothing. Because she could feel him and he could see her.

"We need to talk." He whispered only loud enough for her to understand.

The words tightened something on her insides. Fear: change inspired fear. The need to talk, the need to settle, usually meant that something was wrong and Nesta didn't want to ruin the best thing she'd ever been a part of in a very long time -

But she never stopped him. And Cassian, bless him, devoured her scent of fear until it was replaced with his unwavering calm.

"You tried something a couple of weeks ago. The dinner, you remember?" He prompted, caressing her collarbone slowly. "Do you know why I refused?"

"Because my food is awful?" She offered with furrowed brows, lips pursed - and even though it was not a joke, Cassian laughed at her. "Oh, screw you, Cas…"

"No. No, it's not that." He shakes his head, leaning forward to press his face to the top of her head. He kissed her hair. "It's a… It's a very symbolic thing. It's important for us, when the female offers food for the male. When there is… A bond. If you offer food, it means that you accept the bond."

Of all things Cassian expected to hear from her, it was not this.

"You didn't eat it."

She murmured after a few painful seconds of contemplative silence - though it felt like a compressed eternity for the two of them.

Though Cassian didn't, Nesta had _almost_ forgotten about it. The couple of days that followed that night were terribly awkward, but they got around it and eventually fell back in normalcy. Besides, of course, her meaningless personal promise to never cook for him again - and it was inevitable. She broke it at least once every couple of days.

Now and then, the female would catch herself making something for him - and Nesta's pride was well over being wounded at that point, but still, she never remembered to actually stop. Sooner or later, she'd find herself in the kitchen again. Frying meat, cleaning fish, boiling vegetables, cooking grains or washing fruit.

For him.

Then again, she always remembered how he didn't want it. She always remembered not to carry on with it; how badly it hurt.

"I didn't want to take advantage of you." He shook his head lightly, praying that neither of his words would make her snap shut again. "You didn't know. And it's… Serious. It means a lot."

"Giving you food."

"Yes. If you were going to do it, I wanted you to mean it."

Nesta absorbed the words and allowed them to sit on her mind; lack of communication really _did_ fuck things up.

She had meant it. Unknowingly, at that, but she had meant it.

"The… The bond. Can you feel it?" She whispered, keeping her eyes closed.

They both did.

Since the very moment the cauldron spat Nesta back into the world and they locked eyes, there was an undeniable bond linking them together. And it pulled every once in a while, connecting them in the strangest ways. They shared pains, fears and nightmares, as well as they shared thrills, excitement and a foreign calm that could only be found within each other. Cassian could go on with it. He had about a thousand ways to voice just how badly he felt that bond, _fuck, yes,_ and how hard he longed for it. He had not a single doubt that they were mates, that they belonged to each other, that they were linked together, that she fit perfectly around him.

There were way too many words, so he only chose one.

"Yes."

 _"Yes."_ She muttered under her breath, almost inaudible.

Cassian watched carefully as the slight tension left her shoulders; felt it as the tension left his own.

"Are you saying it about yourself or are you just repeating it after me?" He mused, moving his hand lower until it was placed over her heart. Her rapidly beating heart.

Cassian felt Nesta's face move as she smiled against his arm; and he smiled against her hair.

"How many times do I have to call you stupid until you take it?" She pretends to scoff at him, but the contentment is perfectly clear in her voice.

"Never. I'm afraid you'll have to keep repeating it for the rest of your life."

When Nesta moves again, he doesn't try to stop her. She simply turns around, in the end, her face dangerously close to his. There's no malice in between them, but her open expression still make his wings twitch nervously behind his back.

It's not the first time he held her, not the first time he kissed her, definitely not the first time they found themselves in a similar situation. But when their lips do meet, when there's not a single inch of space in between their bodies, it feels like a first.

Feels like nothing else prior to that ever really mattered.

It's not like they can do much, in the end. Nesta's body still feels like a heavy punching bag and the contusion on her ribs makes her feel out of breath - but they stay in bed. They hold each other and occasionally talk; sometimes they don't. Sometimes they kiss passionately, but that's just as far as she can manage to go.

And it's more than enough. Cassian doesn't push.

He never does - but he stays with her.

His mate.


	3. The War Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta's unending curiosity brings her upon some discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok now THIS is the end. The timing inside the story is weird, but it's intentional I swear. Again, this is another chapter that could be read as an independent oneshot. I peppered in some smut, by the way - and also went crazy with my ideas. Not to be pretentious or anything but I wouldn't mind if canon dealed with Ramiel the same way I did here.  
> Hope you guys enjoy this.
> 
> >>>>>>> yes, that is Nesta with a sidecut

Nesta knows her limits.

She knows who she is. Knows the extent of every secret kept within the walls of her, knows how far she can go and how exactly to use herself. Nesta knows damn well that if she wants it, she can walk out of that house, pick a broken spear from the mud and make it to the training yards. She knows that she can learn their methods, that she can yield their weapons and force herself to either blend in or stomp her way inside their lives, forcefully.

And it's not arrogance: it's knowledge. While Nesta doesn't know a great deal of things about life, she knows herself well enough - from the fiery center to the shadowy corners, the icy surface to the hard concrete bottom.

Nesta knows that she can become the crude illyrian warrior her sister had sent her to the mountains to be.

A banishment didn't necessarily imply a destination. If Feyre had chosen upon her path, it wasn't banishment as much as it was an intervention - and as Nesta learned about the illyrian life, she realized that Feyre either wanted her to become a submissive breeder or a brutal warrior. And considering that the first option was too unreal, she never even thought about it too hard.

So warrior it was.

But she didn't want to be a warrior - never had, not once in her entire life. Not even in the moments in which she had needed it.

While a creature of dark vices and raw emotion, Nesta wasn't nearly as vicious as they made her out to be. Nothing in her called for violence, nothing in her called for bloodshed, nothing in her called for brutality. There were no undertones calling for peace and salvation either, but while destructive, Nesta wasn't  _ destruction _ .

And she would not be molded into it.

Nesta would not allow them to shape her into an ongoing omen, for a warrior had no other destiny than bring and take death. She would not let herself become an unending wait for battle.

She had made that much clear for  _ him. _ Words that made Cassian's heart sink inside his chest - because he knew she was right. The world before her grayish eyes didn't revolve around threatening snarls, the clashing of sweaty skin on flying leathers, hot blood cascading into the mud from fresh wounds or the sharp whistles from their cursed blades. While those were the very things she saw and heard, they weren't the world.

Because above all else, she saw and heard much more.

Nesta could see the wind. That, or ghosts - sometimes both things seemed to be much of the same. Nameless spirits drifting in time and pressing against the living, kissing their breathing flesh and leaving a haunting chill on their awakening. She could hear their voices, too. Their whispers that sometimes were pleas, sometimes were secrets, sometimes were gossip, sometimes were unwelcome advice. They told her things that were true, which led her to never doubt the things she could not yet prove.

She could see the sky; the sky, which was a million colors. And Nesta always choked the impulse to ask if Cassian could see it too - if he knew that some stars were always there, in the same positions, telling powerful stories she was yet to decipher. If he could also sense that they all had names, pasts and memory. That sometimes, they whispered bits and pieces of who they were and what they had seen; that like many things, they wanted to be heard. Nesta wondered if he could also hear the moon's dark lullabies - that, or the sun's prophetic poetry, an unending tale dictated by the steady rhythm of a war drum; though sometimes, they were metallic horns.

Could anyone else tell that the house was alive?

Because Nesta could swear that those old panels of ashy wood formed a soul. It's doors, it's walls, it's ceiling, the floor; breathing and watching over them like it a spirit of it's own.

Did anyone else know that the mountains were alive?

Because she knew.

For when Nesta was first let down on illyrian soil, it felt as if she had been standing on top of a breathing body. An ancient force of unspeakable power that possessed memory, sentiment and so much fucking blood running through it's territory - because it was alive, unforgiving and kept calling back to her. It was lonely; had been for too long, wailing to itself a cry that went unheard for an eternity. And when Nesta stood above it's corpse, listening, the mountain stirred awake in unyielding infatuation.

Nesta could hear it's name being carried through the wind every once in a while.

Ramiel.

Either a friend or an unrequited lover.

It was because she knew herself that Nesta wouldn't become an illyrian warrior - because she could become so much more.

The beginning was strange, since she didn't have a start point. There was no guidance whatsoever: even the illyrian females, the ones she sometimes saw carrying herbs through the windows, weren't interested in looking over to her overall direction. The males would, but mostly because they were all like wolves in heat, lusting over her body - and that attention wasn't welcomed at all. Nesta was numb enough to give herself away, but still bitter enough not to want to be taken by any illyrians.

Especially when one illyrian had already ruined her for the rest of them. Anyone else that wasn't  _ him _ seemed underwhelming - and she  _ barely _ wanted him, for that matter.

Anyway.

There were no books on witchcraft casually lying around the house either. Nesta suppressed a reprimand for never looking out for one during her time in Velaris, but she did recognize that there should be about a thousand on their libraries. And in easy access, had she ever expressed to anyone her intent to get her hands around one - that, of course, considering how eager they would all be to make her useful. And Nesta would, herself, hadn't she been in ongoing asphyxiation, choking in memories and nightmares that distorted them into something worse.

It didn't matter anymore.

Since her mind had been taken by those incessant callings, Nesta didn't have enough time to linger on anything else; but she could. If she reached out and held onto those thoughts hard enough, they could rise to the surface and render her into scraps within the time span of a blink -

Which is why she had learned the art of deflection - so far, the least harmful coping mechanism she had adopted.

It kept her mind clear. It kept her curious and functioning and right now, Nesta wanted to learn how to bend the force twisting inside her body - understanding the whispers around her should be a happy consequence.

Happy; a foreign word that barely existed on her vocabulary.

Nesta isn't naive enough to believe she can sneak out unnoticed, which is why she waits for Cassian to go away first. He always leaves a note when his trips are towards their neighboring camps; he always leaves in quiet guilt when it is to Velaris. She doesn't care one bit. And it takes her about twenty times, the tries scattered within a month or two, before she manages to detangle herself from the camp's length and into the wilderness embracing them with a lascive challenge.

It takes a while to learn her way around the mountains; or as much as one could. The hauntingly beautiful place seems to stretch into the edge of the world and Nesta accepts that maybe even their eldest warriors might be clueless to the extension of that land.

But Nesta keeps searching, though she's still not sure what for.

Cassian knows, of course he does. She doesn't really try to hide it anymore - and it's harmless, considering he can't really comprehend what she does. Not enough to report back to his High Lord and Lady and yet, enough not to brush off completely.

Most of it is instinctive.

Nesta starts with the plants. She  _ knows _ them - technically doesn't, but something deep inside her core understands those forms of life and what they are meant to do in this world. While Nesta had never before set her eyes on rue branches, she plucks them from the cold ground without thinking twice. And later that day, when she carefully washes them on their small sink, she can tell that they are filled with ancient protection magic. She tentatively places the branches around the house: behind their doors, under their beds, inside their closets and under their windows.

There are no more whispers inside the house. It is significantly quieter, though still alive, and Nesta swears to herself that her nightmares become scarce. The rue branches turn to ash in two days, as if they had been dried out of their magic, which then gives Nesta a constant task to keep replacing them.

Cassian doesn't ask. In part, it's because he's still not sure if he'd like to hear the answer; in part, it's because he's terrified of disturbing Nesta's quiet development. While she hadn't bloomed like a soft, loving flower as Feyre and Elain had done on their awakening, she was no longer the ghost he had brought into this land. The first month had been hell, but they managed. The female didn't eat much, but she was no longer in a diet of alcohol punching against an empty stomach. She ate meat sometimes, she drank tea sometimes, she looked out for food on her own sometimes.

Cassian didn't find himself daily pleading for her to eat something and looking back to those days, he can't figure out how on earth they had both lived through that. Or how on earth he had allowed that situation to escalate so badly. He had her atop his body once, sheer determination to never leave, willing to take the killing blow before it tore through her body and pierced his own.

But the Lord Commander was a coward: he became terrified of that intensity once it's raw extension downed on his mind. So he turned away, telling himself that she would be easier to face if he stepped back in caution. And it had been the wrong choice to make, because no time was ever the right time and when he least expected it, Nesta's eyes were hollow and her scent was nothing but alcohol and sex.

And he let her.

Cassian stood aside and watched Nesta kill herself, when she had offered her life for him once. When she had decided that her last wish in this world was that he could breathe for second longer than her.

That was the realisation that made him bring her to the mountains.

And he had expected nothing.

Had expected her to sulk, but hadn't expected her to explore. To learn and evolve, to develop those strange habits, to play with that foreign magic as if it was an old friend of hers. Cassian hadn't expected her to become a fucking witch right under his nose, much less a fucking warrior. Hadn't expected her to grow in such way, hadn't expected or deemed himself worthy of it when she sent her walls tumbling down for him; and only him. In silent contempt.

He hadn't seen it coming.

Hadn't expected to find a warzone on their kitchen - for that's exactly what Nesta had made out it on the morning following  _ that _ night.

There was a plate of food on the table and Nesta sat on the other end of it, casting him a furious look. A challenge written across her features, which didn't falter as he sat down and ate. Her fierce gaze didn't falter as Cassian devoured every bite as if he hadn't eaten anything for a week; didn't falter when he kicked the table to the side and picked her up from that chair like she weighed nothing on his arms.

Cassian was a bastard.

A wicked, perverse, possessive bastard, because when he took them both back to the bedroom, his personal goal to ruin her. The illyrian didn't know that she already was, but that's what he did to her anyway. Cassian poured every inch of his soul into hers and then took her body with unyielding devotion.

Nesta was doomed from the start. From when even his harshness was tender towards her and every piece of her lit up for him, under no one's command. Though she had fucked her way through Velaris, not a single one of her lovers had been as passionate as Cassian was. And he knew, from the second his tongue pressed against the soft flesh of her core and her entire body jerked in shock, that no one else had ever pleasured her like this. They unlocked a whole new level of exposure for her. Reading about it in a hundred novels couldn't have prepared Nesta for the vulnerability she'd find herself in when Cassian draped her legs over his broad shoulders, right underneath his wings, and made her collapse through one, two obscene orgasms with his mouth. And Cassian played with her until she was a mess; until his jaw started aching and his own body urged to be sated too.

Nesta would yield for Cassian; and Cassian only. She devoted every piece of her to his sanctified form; she wanted him to see it all and dared him to still claim her despite everything. And he did. Had, for the longest time, claimed her for himself from the very first time they locked eyes.

Neither of them had enough hands to hold each other as hardly as they wanted to, but four in between the two of them would have to work. They travelled against feverish bodies, feeling tender skin, old scars, hard muscles, soft breasts, blue veins and sensitive fucking flesh. Large wings of dark membrane, which had been torn apart and healed back together way too many times; and quite the number was dedicated to her. Feeling brave, Nesta allowed herself to delicately slide her fingertips across the insides of the wing, which was met with a ferocious growl against her neck.

Cassian sounded like an animal - and the proper lady inside of her, the one who secretly urged to be ravaged by a monster, shivered.

"I thought I could…"

"You can." He rasped, sinking his teeth into her neck and pulling at the rapid pulse point. "Please,  _ do. _ But you'll deal with the consequences."

With how misty Nesta's mind had been, she had absolutely no idea of what the consequences could possibly be, but she decided to take the chances anyway. The leathery membrane of his wings felt amazing under her fingers and she didn't want to retreat from his challenge.

Cassian took her in with narrowed eyes.

A weaker man would have snapped her wrist for the insolence of touching his wings; or fallen in pleasure on top of her like a fool. Cassian was neither. Still, he wasn't immune to how her audacity made him see red; sure as hell wasn't immune to the sweet ache her touch inflicted on his body. He wanted to fuck her a lot harder than what he'd allow himself to - for now, at least. It was too soon to make things too rough, but he'd show her hard nevertheless.

So he took her heat, claiming every inch of the wet, tight flesh for himself with possessive greed. Relishing on the sweet pressure around his cock; the delirious look on her face. Cassian gave her a couple of breaths to adjust; it still wasn't enough. He started off slower than what his body begged for, but they didn't stay like that for too long: Nesta drove him mad with the constant, curious touch to his wings. It didn't take too long for him to snap, fucking her with abandon; with every ounce of his raw, irrevocable devotion.

Every thrust knocked the air out of her lungs: just the reaction the bastard had been looking for. Every movement hit them both like a shock, until it was too much to contain; until they both shattered in perfect euphoria. Nesta and Cassian came sharing the same thought: they were the only place in the world for each other.

"Why did you do that?"

Nesta knows her limits.

Knows herself and knows just how far she could go. She sees, hears and feels things; always had, like a good witch. She makes friends in unusual ways and develops the weirdest obsessions. There are ghosts traveling on the wind, revelations being professed by the sun, omens being sung by the moon. There's a mountain, alive, calling out her name.

Nesta Archeron never wanted to become a warrior, but she would, because the Blood Rite was the only way to get to the monolith of Ramiel. 

And to make it that far, alive, she would become a damned illyrian warrior - for no one other than herself. She would climb Ramiel and see for herself why on earth that damned mountain had been crying out for her since the very first time she set foot on their soil. Nesta investigated, learned and trained for long enough that her vices had been forced into discipline. She took back control of herself, but just enough to let Cassian in - because it was the only way she could make it through anything.

She needed him - he needed her just as bad.

Cassian sulked and made a battle out of it, going as far as getting Feyre involved for intervention. Nesta didn't step back by an inch - and it was pride on her sister's eyes when she gave them both a final word to let her fight.

"Why did you do that?" Cassian asked, arms curled tightly around her.

Nesta came back home in pieces after the rite. Her skin was as thin as paper, bruised and bloodied; knuckles raw, someone else's bone carved inside her hip. Dehydrated, famished, nearly catatonic. An ugly wound to the right side of her head made her lose enough locks so that the healer didn't think twice before cutting off the rest of it.

Nesta woke up with a strange haircut neither of them really minded.

"Why?" She repeated for herself, not really sure on how to phrase it.

She learned why it had been calling out for her - Ramiel, the god, protector of the illyrian. In the end, it was an easy connection to make.

Sometimes, power takes form. It is embodied and becomes someone, rather than something.

The damned god called for her because he was her mate.

For when Nesta first saw his hazel eyes, it felt as if she had been staring into the entirety of the universe. An ancient force of unspeakable power that possessed memory, sentiment and so much fucking blood running through his veins - because he was alive, unforgiving and kept calling back to her. He was lonely; had been for too long, wailing to himself a cry that went unheard for an eternity. And when Nesta stood in front of him, listening, Cassian stirred awake with unyielding infatuation.

"I love you." She answered, staring into his eyes with determination. "That's why."

Cassian's love for her had been shouted across the land through an ancient mountain - Nesta's love for him had fooled Death to answer the call.

The bond snapped then.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it I guess. She's such a complicated character. Is it too much to ask for her to find fulfilment and peace?


End file.
